


In Vino Veritas

by mcicioni



Category: Italy Unpacked (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-12 01:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: An unofficial coda to the first episode ofSicily Unpacked, where Our Heroes have one or two drinks in a busy back street of Palermo. Pure fluff.





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [colisahotnorthernmess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/gifts).



> All my thanks to Colisahotnorthernmess for her patient and witty beta work. This fic is the result of an informal two-person challenge.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is based on the public personae of two real people, but the situations and emotions in the story are entirely my invention.

“It’s called _sangue_ , blood. This is the blood of Palermo. _Alla salute_.”

“ _Alla salute_.” Andrew sips, gulps, and points an accusing finger at Giorgio’s chest. “You’re playing a joke on me. That’s not an aperitif, that’s dynamite!”

Andrew steps sharply backwards and narrowly avoids being run over by a passing Vespa. The street by the Taverna Azzurra, close to the Vucciria market, is packed with people, mostly under thirty, drinking, chatting, pashing. Giorgio overhears two men arguing in what he assumes to be Polish, three girls joking in an Asian language, and a red-haired bloke unsuccessfully trying to chat up a local girl in Australian English, with which she is obviously unfamiliar.

“You’re being dramatic,” he teases. “It’s just a fortified wine, don’t be scared by the name, _Sangue di Sicilia_. Great name for something so strong and sweet.”

“There is a secret ingredient in this wine,” a giggly female voice says behind them, in accented but comprehensible English. “It’s _mosto_ , crushed skins and seeds of grapes.”

They turn around: three young people, two men and a woman, all in their early twenties. Giorgio remembers them ordering the same drink at the bar ten minutes or so ago.

“You’re English, aren’t you?” one of the boys asks Andrew. “Not used to our explosive drinks.” 

“But you’re Italian. You have a Milanese accent.” The girl is sidling up to Giorgio, smiling at him. She is only a little older than his daughter, and he starts frowning and preparing a stern warning, but almost immediately he is aware that she is not interested in him in _that_ way. She and her friends must have taken pity on the two middle-aged, obviously misplaced, tourists.

“ _Ecco qua_.” The other boy had vanished for a moment; he reappears carrying a little tin tray with four more plastic glasses of _sangue_. “ _Offriamo noi_ , it’s our treat. Drinks are only two euros each anyway.” He grins and lifts his glass. “To our guests in Palermo.”

Introductions follow: the boys are Pippo and Marco, the girl is Manuela. They all smile broadly when Andrew explains who they are and what they are doing in Palermo. “We’re partners,” Giorgio says happily, and notices that the young people are exchanging an arch look, but is too busy finishing his drink to worry about it.

“My turn to buy,” Marco says, and makes his way into the crowd around the bar. Pippo drains his glass, blushes slightly for reasons unknown and turns to Giorgio: “Where did you two meet?”

Giorgio smiles. “Here in Sicily, last year. In an olive grove, the owners supply oil to my restaurant. I was talking with them, and suddenly some more people arrived, with this strange Englishman, who spoke elegant Italian and used all these long words and knew everything about art.” He puts an arm around Andrew’s shoulders, chuckling.

“And I saw this peculiar Italian who was buying forty cases of olive oil,” Andrew throws his head back and laughs, “forty cases, all in one go, and I wondered if he was going to take baths in it. I just had to get to know him.” He giggles, a little dizzily, and bumps into Marco, almost making him spill the drinks.

“So you’ve only been together one year,” Manuela beams, patting Andrew’s arm. “I would have thought longer, you look so _comfortabbile_ together.”

“Yes,” Marco jumps in. “And you make each other laugh, you look so happy.”

They gape at each other. Giorgio is the first one to suck in his breath and step backwards; Andrew’s eyebrows fly all the way into his hairline. They speak together, their voices rushing over each other. “No. No.” “You’re mistaken.” “Really, we aren’t …” “We’re partners, but just …”

Pippo gulps down his drink, blushing very visibly and looking vaguely disappointed. “ _Scusate, scusate tanto_. We didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No, no, we aren’t offended.” “Not in the least.” “Absolutely, not at all.” If he and Andrew were sober, Giorgio knows that they could stop this double act, sort this out politely, then take their leave and go back to their hotel. But they aren’t, and they can’t.

“Let us buy you a drink to show that you didn’t offend us,” Andrew declares, ignoring the look Giorgio throws him, and cheerfully weaves his way to the bar.

“ _Alla salute_ ,” Manuela says, lifting her glass and winking. “To your relationship, whatever it is.”

They shake their heads at her and lift their own glasses. “To Sicilian girls.”

“Sicilian _women_ , Andrew, don’t be sexist.”

“And Sicilian men.”

“Stop it, Andrew. Bye, _ragazzi_ , I’ve got to take him back, he’s what in Lombardy we call _ciucch_.”

“We say _mriacu_.”

“Legless. Smashed. Pissed as a newt,” Andrew supplies helpfully.

Some back slaps, a lot of waving, Manuela kisses them on both cheeks, and they’re on their way. Giorgio is also feeling pleasantly woozy as he holds on to Andrew and wonders whether he should turn right or left at the end of the street.

“We’d better take a taxi,” Andrew says, blinking a few times. “I don’t think you can find your way back.”

“And I wouldn’t trust you in this traffic, “Giorgio retorts, not letting go of Andrew’s arm. “You’re English, you expect drivers to stop on pedestrian crossings, you wouldn’t last five minutes on your own here.”

Andrew blinks again and looks owlishly at Giorgio. “Would you mind if I got squashed by a bus or a car?” 

“What a question, of course I would mind, the show would be over. Come on, it’s as safe as it’ll ever be, let’s start crossing.”

They make it to the other side of the street, then stop and look at each other. Giorgio lets go of Andrew’s arm, regretting it at once. He’d like to spend hours holding on to Andrew’s arm. And more hours with his own arms around him. “Hey. I want to tell you something. What the kids said, you know. Well, I really never thought it was offensive.”

“No. It wasn’t.” Andrew looks Giorgio over, from untidy hair to wine-spattered shirt to dusty feet, and makes a sound that is half sigh and half giggle. “Under the right circumstances, it might actually be … nice.”

Giorgio’s breath catches. All he can think of is _sí, sí_ , and also _grazie_. “ _Andrea_. You think that might also be … possible? Even though I haven’t got any … experience.” He freezes. “Have _you_?”

Andrew goes slightly pink. It suits him. It suits him a lot. “I might have a little. Not a lot. Not … recently.”

They hail a taxi, and are silent all the way back to the hotel. Their rooms are on the same floor. Andrew stops in front of his door, opens it and waves Giorgio in.

“So … come in and let me have my evil way with you,” he says a little hesitantly, eyes crinkling in a smile. 

Giorgio would like to start having _his_ evil way with him right now, before they close the door. “And vice versa,” he grins, taking Andrew’s face in both hands and kissing him, firm and deep, _at last_ and _finalmente_ and all sorts of confused thoughts rushing through his mind like a waterfall. Andrew’s eyes open wide, his arms enclose Giorgio’s waist and pull him closer, and his hands begin to caress Giorgio’s bum and keep doing it until Giorgio is one tense mass of excitement and need.

“I want to look at you,” Andrew says, unbuckling and unbuttoning and taking half a step back, as if Giorgio were a statue or a painting that he was about to describe.

“I want to look _and touch_.” Giorgio reaches out and undresses Andrew in no time at all, chuckling as he thinks that he doesn’t really need specific experience, what he knows will do. He makes love as he cooks, with his eyes and hands and fingertips, and he fills his hands with Andrew and kneads and licks and bites, and Andrew’s incoherent sounds of pleasure let him know that what he’s doing works, and his body responds in kind, happily. Andrew gives him a warm smile – he’s sweaty and dishevelled and absolutely beautiful – and gets on top of him, aligning their erections and thrusting strongly against him, and the only thing he says is an urgent “Don’t close your eyes,” and they look at each other as their thrusts get wilder and their bodies tense and jerk and spill, Andrew first, he soon afterwards. 

They lie on their backs, two drained middle-aged men, two schoolboys who have just discovered a new, spectacular way of having fun. They glance at each other and their fingers brush each other’s bodies – yes, it’s true, what happened did happen.

“So,” Andrew says after a while.

“So,” Giorgio says after a shorter while, mischievously, trying to hide the knot forming in his stomach. “Shall we say that it was all due to the _sangue di Sicilia_ and forget all about it?”

“Not on your life,” Andrew says firmly. “What did they use to say in Dante’s time? _Cosa fatta capo ha_ , once something is done, there’s no going back.”

“And he quotes Dante as well,” Giorgio informs an invisible audience, rolling his eyes. “But I agree. Let’s get some sleep. Come ‘ere,” and he reaches for Andrew to pull him close against him.


End file.
